


gifted kid struggle

by smudgywords



Category: South Park
Genre: Chronal Disassociation, Depression, Gen, Gifted Kid Struggle, Idk u know how craig is, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Memory Loss, Sad Kyle Broflovski, Self-Hatred, Supportive Craig Tucker, Uh supportive-ish?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22328404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgywords/pseuds/smudgywords
Summary: Kyle can't even remember who he used to be.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, implied
Kudos: 30





	gifted kid struggle

**Author's Note:**

> hey be careful and look at the tags

Kyle is so, so tired. 

He’s only pathetic at this rate. Sitting on the ground next to the shards of a broken mirror. He’s weeping hysterically, fingers tangled in his curls. He feels sick in too many ways to count. 

He’s sick of this cat and mouse game. He’s sick of needing validation. He’s sick of caring so much. Too many nights have came and went where he couldn’t sleep thinking about it. 

School. 

Stupid, really. What teenage boy cares that much about his grades? But Kyle did. Oh, Kyle did. He cared so much and so little, all at the same time. He was the modern image of a golden child, his face painted as an icon on church walls inside the school, reminding everyone that that was the one thing he was good at. He was smart, he learned, and yes, he was going to be proud of it. 

He lacked validation in other areas of his life, so he sought it out there. A+ 's were the only outcome. Dry eyes and paper cuts all led up to what? This? A teenage boy sobbing in a mess on the ground?

Was it worth it? 

A small part of Kyle would say yes, because for a short while he was good at something. Better at it then anyone else. But not anymore. Reading novels isn’t so amazing anymore. Finding hidden metaphors in writing is expected, not a shocking. A larger part of Kyle would say no. 

This cycle of self-loathing and validation began at the pure age of 10, but he’s 16 now, and everyone is on the same level as him, if not higher. He’s falling behind, failing. He’s failing himself, not just his classes. He put himself somewhere in his history book and shut it, losing it forever. 

He’s a crinkled page in a notebook, misshapen and corrupted. Kenny, hell, even fucking Cartman is smarter than him now. They’re miles ahead of him, begging him to up the pace, but he’s lying on the ground covered in his own blood. He’s tried too hard. He’s given up now. 

Of course on some level he still cares, of course he does. It just hurts so much to study and get back a failing grade, he can’t take that rejection one more time. 

He doesn’t study anymore. He barely goes to school. Never answers questions, never hands in papers. He can’t seem to see it past his dark circles, but everyone is worried. 

Kyle just wants to exhale, to let his shoulders drop, but that will not happen anytime soon. School is binding him to a wall, cuffing him unbearably tight, so much so that blood drips from around the metal on his wrist. 

It’s been about an hour since Kyle broke the mirror. He’s still laying next to it on the ground. Vaguely, he thinks he recalls his phone buzzing with Stan’s caller ringtone a couple times, but it doesn’t matter. 

I’m so stupid. 

He rolls over, sees the way his body distorts in the warped glass, and tries to keep up a facade of a smile. After a second it drops, too ashamed of himself to even try. 

His eyes burst open at the sound of a soft tap on his window. 

Gathering himself, he gets up and sees three figures outside his window. Kyle can’t really tell who they are, especially since his eyes are a lot more blurred with tears than he thought. He gets up hesitantly, wiping his eyes. It’s too late before he realizes there is blood coating his knuckles, sticky and clotting. A couple shards are still stuck in his skin. Great. 

With a grunt, he opens the window, letting the mysterious visitors inside before heading to the bathroom, not caring what they have to say to him. 

Kenny, he sees, follows him in, standing behind him in the mirror. The fluorescent lighting is really making Kyle look like a serial killer coated in blood right now. He briefly entertains the thought of yelling at them to leave, but he doesn’t have the energy to ponder it for more than a couple seconds. First, he washes his hands. 

“Hey, Kyle?” 

Pink runs off, the scent of green apple and the iron of blood mixing together nauseatingly. 

“Kyle?” 

He’s fairly sure the blood is off his hands now, but he’s also pretty sure that he just pushed some shards into his skin harder. He scrubs more. 

“I- Kyle,” Kyle isn’t listening. Everything is a blur to him right now. All he hears is a command to scrub his skin off with the reward of a pat on the back. 

Kenny grabs his wrist, and Kyle pauses in time. He suddenly recognizes the voices, the pair of concerned eyes gazing at him in the mirror. Lovely blue and smudged mascara. 

“Kyle, what the hell is going on?” Kenny asks, voice hushed and frantic. Like Kyle is a piece of glass, all too easy to break inside.

“I don’t know,” Kyle admits, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to look at himself in the mirror. The entire left side of his face has a swipe of blood on it, a couple shards stick out of his eyebrow, and dried tears make their way through the blood. “I just-” 

Kyle can’t speak anymore when he hears a choked cry from the other room. Sounds like Stan. It’s kind of annoying. 

“You just what?” Kenny urges him on, so completely confused and scared that it makes Kyle feel powerful for a second. Kyle feeds on that feeling, gazing down at the blonde boy in front of him. 

“I just did this. I don’t know why, or when it happened. It could’ve been days ago for all I know. Or care,” Kyle sighs, grabbing a white washcloth (bad choice, Kyle) to swipe his face clean. It stings, definitely from the shards, and he tries not to see his pink, tender knuckles. 

“We were all so worried,” Kenny exhales, “I guess we had a reason to be,” 

“I don’t know why you care so much,” Kyle remains blank-faced. The glass shards in his face really hurt, he should take them out. But first he has to push them in deeper. 

His face is clean, so now he can maybe stand the sight of himself in the mirror. He still doesn’t like the image it shows, a sleep-deprived redhead with his blonde friend, crying. A face peeks in the bathroom, Craig’s?

What the hell is he doing here? 

Kyle does a double-take, face contorted suddenly in the most emotion Kenny has seen from him in the 10 minutes they’ve been there. 

“Hey, dude,” Craig responds, sheepishly. He is obviously very uncomfortable and doesn’t want to be here. That could make Kyle smile, because he also does not want Craig to be here. He doesn’t want anyone to be here, actually. Not even himself. 

Kyle doesn’t respond, just sends a look to Kenny. Kenny shrugs, patting him on the back. At this exchange, Craig immediately turns around and leaves the bathroom. Good, at least he realizes a social cue. 

Kenny sighs, closing the bathroom door. “Look at you, you’ve still, like, a hundred little pieces of glass stuck on you, jesus, Kyle,” He pulls out a pair of tweezers for the small pieces. 

Kyle says nothing, just sits on the edge of the tub and lets Kenny do what he wants. Kenny begins extracting pieces of glass from him. 

“How hard did you even hit that for the glass to go everywhere?” Kenny asks. His tone isn’t scared anymore, probably because he finally sees Kyle as the failure he is. 

“Dunno. I don’t even remember hitting it,” Kyle murmurs, and scratch that, Kenny is back to being scared. 

“You don’t remember?” Kenny inhales sharply. His hands are shaking now, and Kyle feels the urge to shrug it all off and tell them all he’s fine. 

“Yep,” Kyle settles for. Kenny is not satisfied with this. 

“How do you not remember?” Kenny grimaces, hands tight on Kyle’s shoulder. Kyle wants to push him off. He liked it before, he liked his little fast-foward land of nothing. 

“You think I know that?” Kyle frowns, “I don’t know anything anymore,” 

A tear manages to fall from Kenny’s eye at this. Kyle can’t stand to see Kenny cry, not because of him. 

Kenny cries at stupid things, like movies and sad videos. Not because of serious issues. 

“Stop,” Kyle demands, trying to sound more concerned than bossy, but he ultimately fails. He can’t see this right now. “Please stop,” 

Kenny wipes it away, picking the last shard out of his cheekbone. “Look, here’s what's going to happen. We’re going outside and we’re all going to sit down and talk,” 

Kyle huffs, “Why is Craig here?” 

“Because he was with us when Stan started freaking out about you. That’s why. He could’ve left if he wanted to, but he didn’t. He’s worried too,” Kenny gestured beyond the door, “You heard me, right? You made Craig Tucker worried.” 

It takes him a second to understand that reference. Is being emotionless one of Craig’s traits? Is that what he’s known for? Actually, who the fuck even is Craig Tucker?” 

“Fine, let’s get this pity party over with,” Kyle stands up, letting Kenny lead the way in his own house. 

Craig and Stan, (mostly Craig), cleaned up the glass, and they’re both sitting on the end of Kyle’s unmade bed. Craig is trying his best and failing to comfort a weeping Stan. At the sound of Kyle’s footsteps, Stan picks up his head from his hands and turns around to look at him. 

Well, shit, there’s the most guilt he’s felt in a while. Stan’s eyes are puffy, he’s biting his lip, and he’s gripping to the bed like it is the only thing connecting him to the ground. 

Something drips down his cheek, and he wipes it away, thinking it’s blood. It’s tears. He’s crying right now. 

Kenny gently guides him to the bed, and they all look to him expectantly. What is he even going to say? 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Kyle exhales, “All I can say is I’m surprised it took me so long to crash and burn,” He chuckles emotionlessly at the last part. Nobody else laughs.

“God, Kyle, what the fuck happened? You’re so different now,” Craig spits, surprisingly angry. “You used to be annoying. You’re not anything anymore,” 

“Yeah, that’s the goal,” Kyle huffs, “You guys need to stop,” 

“Stop what?” Kenny asks, incredulous.    
  


“Stop trying to make me the same as I was before. I’m not that guy anymore. I’m not anyone anymore. Just accept it,” 

Stan suddenly speaks up. “In the 16 years of you being alive, you were always someone to me. You’re someone to me right now. And no, I won’t accept it. I won’t accept the fact that you just disassociated for two hours. I’m not gonna accept the fact that I called you  **5 fucking times** with no response,” Stan hisses, “When I saw you from the window, I thought-” He cuts himself off. 

Kyle turns bitterly, “You thought what?” He already knows the answer. 

“I thought you were dead,” Stan admits, crying again. 

Craig is silent beside Stan, as if he’s formulating something in his head. Kenny has a hand on Kyle’s shoulder, as if he’s trying to convince himself that Kyle still has a pulse. 

“You know I wouldn’t do that,” Kyle looks at his raw, scrubbed hands. They’re still pulsing in pain. “What would I do if I failed?” 

“I-” Stan sighs, “I miss you,” 

Kyle blinks at him, sorrow filling his lungs. He misses himself too. “Look, just- Just-” He tries to comfort Stan, to say the right thing, because god forbid he fails at this too. 

“Kyle, you need a therapist,” Craig bluntly states, lighting up a cigarette. Kenny seems a bit dismayed by his bluntness, but Kyle actually likes it better that way. 

“I can take care of myself,” Kyle whispers, 

“Obviously you can’t, or we wouldn’t have walked in to you being covered in blood and glass,” Craig takes a long drag. 

“Fuck, Craig, why do you even care? You hate me,” Kyle scoffs. 

Craig manages to frown at this, “I don’t hate you. If I hated you I wouldn’t talk to you. You’re my...friend.” It seems like it hurts him to get these mangled words out. Like coughing razor blades up. 

Kyle just laughs, bitterly and unfeeling. “No, no, you don’t. I’m not that stupid,” Kyle’s laughing fades into nothing. “You barely know me,” 

“I know you well enough to know you need help,” Craig sets his gaze on Kyle’s eyes. Stern, cold. Kyle does not deserve help, he knows. If his friends can make it without help, why can’t he?

“I don’t need help. I don’t need anything,” Kyle growls, “I’ve given up on trying to help myself, so who gives a shit?” 

“Why did you give up?” Kenny asks, suddenly very introspective. He is leaning forward on his arm, looking at Kyle pointedly. 

“So you think just because I’m not going to waste money on a therapist that you get to be my therapist? No,” Kyle sneers, “No, I gave up because I know I’m not capable of anything beyond this,” He gestures to himself, “And if I try and open myself up to a hope for something more, I’ll just see-” He cuts himself off, he’s said too much. 

“You’ll just see what?” Stan asks. Kyle can feel their eyes on him, their breath on his neck while he struggles to form an answer that doesn’t make him sound as pathetic as he really is. 

“I’ll just see another failure,” Kyle sighs, “And I can’t handle that,” 

Kenny hugs him now, a heavy exhale leaving his lips. Stan is crying again. Craig is looking at his hands awkwardly. He really shouldn’t be here. 

“So, you’re afraid of failure?” Craig asks, sounding too much like Craig to be in such an emotional situation. Kyle isn’t even hugging Kenny back, but the blonde is still clinging onto him like a sloth. 

“I’m not afraid of it. It’s just a tragic normality,” Kyle looks at Stan. He’s crying into his hands, and Kyle is sure that if he removes his hands, all he will see is a mess of snot and fat tears. “Think of it like this, imagine someone you love dies because of you,” 

Craig scoffs at this ridiculous comparison, but Kyle keeps going. 

“And obviously, you feel bad. But people keep dying because of you. You try to help them, but they die anyway. You’ll get used to it and the shock of it won’t be as bad every time, but it’ll hurt like a bitch more and more. Eventually it will get to the point that you expect failure, for them to die, I mean. So you won’t even try to save them,” Kyle hates this. He hates trying to explain it. Right now, all he is imagining is Stan croaking on his back, covered in blood and himself walking away, trying not to notice. 

“So what you’re saying is that you don’t try because you think you’re going to fail anyway?” Kenny hums, softly and slightly comforting to Kyle at this moment. 

“I guess,” 

“Maybe you didn’t try hard enough,” Craig responds, and a pulse of rage flies through Kyle’s body. He turns sharply, eyes burning. Kenny seems to realize what is going to happen, so he tries to block Craig from Kyle’s view. Like a bull with its horns outstretched. 

“You think I didn’t try as hard as I could? I gave up everything,” Kyle hisses, “I barely spoke to anyone, I barely slept. You have no idea how much I tried. And I kept thinking that maybe one day, I’d fall back into my track of finally being good at something, even if it’s stupid. No, I gave up that shit a while ago.” 

Kenny grips Kyle’s shoulder tightly, Stan is beside him now, hand on his knee (?). Craig seems surprised. 

“Did you though?” Craig blinks. It suddenly hits Kyle all at once

“Did I what?” 

“Did you really give up on it?” 

Kyle sits on this question for a minute. Did he? Did he ever really lose all hope? Screw it, he’ll say yes. 

“Yeah, or obviously I wouldn’t be sitting in a room with three make-believe therapists.” 

Craig raises his eyebrow. 

“Look, I’m not gonna sit here and make you feel better about yourself. I’m telling you the truth, unlike these two idiots,” Craig takes a drag of his long-forgotten cigarette. “You’re in deep right now. The fact you think you’re not capable of anything is laughable. Maybe the reason you’re not going anywhere is because you’re holding on to what could’ve been. Open your fucking eyes, academics isn’t everything, just get a hobby and stop feeling sorry for yourself, dipshit,” 

Kyle is silent, because yeah, maybe he is right. He really doesn’t do much besides mope and sleep nowadays. He hates himself for agreeing with Craig, but he kind of has a point. He hopes his silence speaks of his agreement enough. 

Craig seems satisfied with this, and turns around and leaves. 

Kenny is silent too, so is Stan. They’re both looking at him like he is going to say something defensive back to Craig, but Kyle has nothing. He just looks at Stan, who is no longer crying. 

“Okay, maybe,” Kyle settles on, rolling his eyes when the two of them drop their shoulders in relief. 

“I still think you need a therapist, bro,” Stan hugs his super best friend, putting a hand in his unruly red curls. “I mean, I have one,” 

“You do?” Kyle asks, eyebrow raised. 

“I mean, yeah, why do you think I haven’t been drinking so much lately?” Stan is still holding onto him. Kyle thinks he hears Stan’s heart race when he hugs him back. “T-They really help,” 

“I agree,” Kenny joins in on the group hug, and he’s pretty sure he hears Stan exhale in relief. 

Now he’s hugging both of his best friends. And Kyle thinks that maybe, just maybe, he might be able to find that missing shard of himself in the pile.


End file.
